


war room

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [19]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Consensual Kink, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, No Lube, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, War Table (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: He wrenched straight up and she squealed, scrambling up, agony and longing twisting her face. He pressed forward against her, moving her back against the war table, and spoke lightly, unable to remove the humor from his tone, and she shook against him, too, both with the rush of the pain of being dragged by her hair and, he saw, now with shocked and panicked laughter.“Taunting me night after night,” he said in a lilting sing-song, “drawing me near? And the moment we are alone together you spit on me? Unacceptable behavior, da’len.”
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	war room

“Are you entirely without shame?” he asked, closing the door to the war room behind them.

“You know I absolutely feel shame, and a crippling portion of it, even. Just,” she grinned and pulled him closer, “not when it comes to this.”

Then she pulled his mouth down to hers and he was fumbling with the holds of his vest, shrugging out of it and leaving it on the floor as she kissed him. She pulled him across the room. His eyes closed; he stumbled forward. Everywhere she was on his skin felt like burning.

When she came away, gasping for breath, her hands were grasping the cloth of his shirt. Pangara had pulled them to the war table — here was the true seat of her power, obscured by the darkness of the room, the stones gray and cold beneath their feet.

Then the leader of the Inquisition turned her back to him. She slid her hands out side-to-side on the deep old grain of the war table. She shook her backside at him like a harlot. The look tossed back at him: all dare and _so-what-will-you?_ in her eyes and lips.

What would he indeed. He studied her swaying in the dark. His fingers tucked one glove down around his wrist and then each finger off, and he moved slowly; he could not have pulled his eyes from her if he’d tried. She had been sluttish for the entirety of the their return to Skyhold. And he had been powerless to act given the unusual size of their party, Varric, Cassandra, Dorian, Blackwall, himself, and the Iron Bull besides.

They had liberated a mining operation from the clutches of the Red Templars in the Emprise. Then they had removed a threat of no fewer than three clutching dragons from the mountainside. Both operations had been agony to him, his private panic at the state of this world, at the speed at which it was deteriorating. It drove him desperate to her arms. 

And how eagerly she’d welcomed him.

But their moments had been few and brief. A caress. An embrace. A murmured word. She would squeeze his shoulders. He would touch her knee. The gentle pushing of her hair from her eyes. Always finding the smallest moments of privacy, and still frequently stumbled across by one companion or another. Varric raising his hands and backing away with a knowing smile. Blackwall telling them gruffly to put down the fire when they tucked in. Dorian offering, sincere and cross, “Frankly Solas, if you want to find a little cave or whatever you do and just leave behind all the blankets for me I won’t say another word.”

The Commander had recalled their party to plan the siege on Suledin Keep and its demon master-of-the-house.

Arrangements had been four to a tent on the journey back to Skyhold. Even the slightest indiscretion would have been known.

And she had known it well.

Seven nights of catching her lip in her teeth when he looked her way, then laughing. Seven nights of goading him, of sitting close to his knee and asking him of his journeys in the Fade. Her eyes had been bright when she probed to know more of the orgiastic dinners of certain pre-Andrastian Ciriane tribes. She whispered things across the fire that only he (and possibly the Iron Bull, given the sly looks sent his way) could hear.

Cheeky, filthy things.

So what would he do now? With her ass wiggling, swaying slow and pert, taunting him? Her smile still pink from the cold mountain air?

It was dark in the cavernous war room. The still of night unbroken as shadows moved across the moons.

He spared a glance up at the chandelier, at the roots of this once-great fir which had sheltered accords of peace and plenty. He snapped. The wicks of the candles in their iron candleholders all puffed to light at once. Then he looked down at the map and memorized the locations of every pin and marker, every icon and assignment.

Then his body slammed against hers.

His front pressed to her back. He pushed her, hard, forward. He lunged over her, covering her body with his broader frame. Iron markers scattered. His hands clamped down over hers. He drove her forward until her hips were flush with the table, and he pinned her and moved his lips close to her ear.

“Perhaps you need to be humbled, da’len.”

She caught her breath and _spat_.

The wet slime hit his hand; he did not give her the satisfaction of flinching, but fires orbed behind his eyes when he pressed them slowly shut; he forced a calming, steadying breath.

She said, “I thought you liked me proud.”

Several small explosions popped in the candles above. No, she could not enrage him.

But… to be _spat_ on… to be _spat on_ …

He brought the hand soaked with her saliva up. He smeared the wet onto her chin. Then he slowly clenched his fingers around her neck and thrilled to feel her lean forward, pressing into his hold.

“I like you dignified, not crass with the nasty manners of an impertinent da’len. Filthy and rude besides, begging — ” with every admonishment he crept his touch further up her leg, and every time she yelped his heart rolled. He ran his fingers up to the skirt of her armor. He brushed the soft fringe of leather. She was still in her Dalish heavy gear, unwashed from the road.

He squeezed her throat, gently, gently. “You will beg me for dignity when this is through. Incorrigible woman. You will humiliate yourself with what you desire.”

He paused.

He paused, for when he pulled the bottom of her skirt up over the curve of her ass he expected to find her Dalish smalls, or some other womanly underclothes Josephine had ordered her measured for in Val Royeaux.

Instead, her round backside was bare. Plump and curved and bare.

He stared.

And then he smacked her ass, walloping her with his bare hand. The full weight of her cheek jiggled as he squeezed. “Wide hands,” she’d once moaned, and his hands were full of her now.

“Fuck,” she cried out.

“You will speak in Elven, or not at all.”

She shuddered and traced the grain of the great wood table with her fingernail, looking back at him with a cheeky grin.

“That barely stings.”

He flowered her ass with a strike of his flat palm, and then another to the other cheek. When he whipped his touch away he watched her ass ripple. She was reddened already by his attentions. He knocked his foot to the inside of one ankle, and then the other, spreading her legs apart.

“What did I say.” He did not ask it as a question.

She readjusted her weight on the war table. Moonlight pulled across her body: her pauldrons had been removed earlier, and now one strap of her leathers dropped off her shoulders, her disheveled top peeking one tit out of her bustier.

She cried out when he smacked her again. And again. Her ass was cold to touch, so he rubbed his hand in slow circles before pulling back and slamming full and fleshy another strike. This time his hand landed with a satisfying crack and a howl from her lips.

He chuckled. “Are you no better than an animal, with such a cry?”

He felt a need to pour himself into her, wanted suddenly to fill her full of him, to be the end of all her thoughts and the start of all her desires. He wandered two fingers over the curve of her cleft. He touched up to her tucked little clit and rubbed, hard and languid, taking his time with a pressure that made her gasp.

“No,” she moaned. She rocked down onto his hand. “No, I’m… I’m no better than a _slut,_ _bitch dog_ in rut, I want… I want…”

“Elven,” he crooned.

She accepted the correction with a grateful whine.

_“Ma nuvenin, Papae.” He laughed, and so did she, and she went on giving him the details in Elven. For all she spoke in a way that would grant him control, begged for his cock, and asked for her release, her tone was sharp and coy._

__

__

She pressed onto his fingers urgently, her ass wiggling in a way that made him bite the inside of his cheek, made him consider, momentarily, hauling her around. He would have her lock her ankles behind his legs, fold her arms around his neck. He’d hold her waist and thrust into her while she bounced and wailed. He loved hearing her beg to be fucked harder, he couldn’t believe how sweet her tone was when he coupled to her, how beautiful she was.

He loved pressing his face into her neck when he fucked her from behind.

He loved holding his lips on the salty sweat of her hairline.

She was soft and she wanted to be held.

And she wanted to be _fucked._

She had been courting him to distraction.

Propriety was lost to him now.

He would have her.

“Turn to me,” he said. His voice was hoarser than he wanted it to be. He saw the way her hands shook and clenched. “Kneel?” He suggested this only, his tone soft, but she dropped to the tiles on her knees like she had been waiting to heed his demands.

“You are beautiful.” He touched along the side of her cheek.

Then, “Spit,” he instructed.

She looked up at him with marked confusion. And then wariness. He reached into his trousers and pulled out the straining weight of his cock.

“Spit,” he said again, clearer. Quieter. Harsher.

She looked up at him, coyness replaced with fear. Fear, and a glimmer of hot anticipation.

“I thought you didn’t like it when I did that?”

He gestured impatiently to his cock and repeated, “Spit.”

She narrowed her eyes. She bent over his length and dribbled saliva over his cock. She moved as if to raise a hand to touch him, and he swatted her away and said, “No.” He made her spit until her mouth and throat were dry, and she coughed slightly when she breathed. His length was soaked by her spit, glistening down to his trousers. She had leaned close, fully absorbed in her task as the time passed. He watched her forget that he was watching. Repetitive, requiring her attention, the task had consumed her.

She had forgotten, perhaps, that this had started with an insult.

He placed his fingers gently through her hair.

She paused and glanced up, eyes moony in the candlelight.

He wrenched straight up and she squealed, scrambling up, agony and longing twisting her face. He pressed forward against her, moving her back against the war table, and spoke lightly, unable to remove the humor from his tone, and she shook against him, too, both with the rush of the pain of being dragged by her hair and, he saw, now with shocked and panicked laughter.

“Taunting me night after night,” he said in a lilting sing-song, “drawing me near? And the moment we are alone together you spit on me? Unacceptable behavior, da’len.”

“You’ll punish me?” Her nose crinkled, her voice low; she cocked one shoulder forward.

He moved aside the leather armor between her legs. He pressed close, his cock against her entrance, able to feel the heat and slick rubbing between her thighs.

“Elven.” He changed to speak in it. “I spoke in error before. You are no da’len. You are a… a dog, was it? A _slut bitch_ in heat, you said?”

She moaned and nodded, pushing her head to rub against his shoulder. His heart stopped to feel her so intimate, close and wanting against him.

“Ah. In that case, _ma malfenasha_ , I will not punish you.”

He touched, gently, her elbows, traced his touch up her arms.

“… In that case, I will tame you.”

Her breath hitched.

He spun her around and slammed her down onto the table with a firm hand on her back. He lifted her leather skirt once more.

He placed his tip at her hole.

She tensed, did not call their word, and then, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

Then he plunged his cock, wet with her spit, hard and sudden full into her ass. His balls pressed against her cleft. He pushed her forward against the table.

She screamed; she choked, and sobbed.

Her hands jumped and scrambled for purchase on the table. Iron markers fell aside. He watched her writhe in pain and, simultaneously, try desperately not to move at all, the pain likely running in electric, agonizing jolts up her spine. He kept still within her and watched the sweat breaking on her hairline, her eyes tightly shut. He watched her try to gasp for breath and then control a gag.

Just before she had fully steadied, he moved within her.

She moaned; he had to close his eyes and when he opened them again he trained his gaze on the chandelier, on the flicker of the candles. He was close already, sensation singing up through his erection and spreading warm and wanting and good through his entire body. To be in her, after so long; he had gone longer, of course. Had gone centuries, eons. And yet since having the warmth and pliancy of her body under his, she had become a fix he hungered for; he longed for her at all hours, hid the extent of his craving even from himself. So that, as it hit him now, the rapture of consummation… rocking inside her, her ass tight and her body shaking… he was ashamed by how close he was.

He released a trembling breath, and then, again, she _moaned._

“Un…” He groaned and slid within her. Then she rocked back. He clamped his hands on her hips, frantic to make her stop. He was too close.

He reached out and put his fingers in the short mess of her hair. They breathed together, each adjusting. The dim light did not reach beyond the table. The brick walls of the war room appeared almost to pillow in the darkness.

When he was confident of lasting, he pumped inside her. Slow out, then in.

“Come…” she begged.

“No,” he commanded, hoarse.

His pace frenzied and she bit back her cries of pain. He used her ass meanly, reckless and relentless, his fingers in her hair. And then he reached down and smacked. His palm reddened her round cheeks riding his cock, earning a yelp, and then he smacked her again — thrusting and spanking with growing abandon. His pleasure swelled within him but he held back, waiting, panting, thrusting and listening to her sounds crest from agony to frustration.

 _“Solas,”_ she sobbed. She looked back at him, twisting her head under his grip, and her face was stunning — tears ran from her eyes, her nose red, her lips bitten and red.

He tightened his grip in her hair, his other hand stroking up the whole of her body, one long, sensual touch from her backside up the curve of her spine, the cut of her shoulder, to the delicate crest of her ear.

“… Did you say, vhenan, that ‘it barely stings?’ Was that your complaint, earlier?”

She whined and cried out and he thrust inside her.

“And what of your grievance now? Dissatisfied, still?” He inched from her, pulling back, tracing the delicate cuff of her ear as he departed. And then he thrust hard, grunting as he dug deep within her, and she shook her head violently from side to side.

She moaned no, no, no.

She gasped for breath.

“No scorn left in you, then?”

Curious (and unable, he admitted to himself, to keep away from the heat of it), he caressed around her leg and up her inner thigh, nearly coming undone when he felt the splashes of clear, thick streams coating her legs. Her passion came away on his fingers. He sighed, groaned.

“Ah, _ma malfenasha,_ you are indeed in season.”

She groaned, mouth lax and tongue loose. Her eyes rolled.

He hissed and pulsed his hips, her ass now receptive to him — her tight heat too much around him, delirium devouring his thoughts as he grunted. Sensations of pleasure and pain fitzed and sparked and spiraled him into a madness of taking her.

He pressed over her, bending her deeper, grinding her against the table; the iron markers still standing shook and toppled, pieces rolling and clattering to the floor. He clenched his hands around her ass, pressing, forcing her hips back harder against him. Her fingernails bit into the wood, clinging for purchase as he beat furiously into her ass, mounting her with greater and greater brutality until finally, as she howled his name and her head whipped back, he slammed into her and his spend fell from him, filling her, his cock throbbing as his vision was pushed aside by a vibrant show of stars and heat and lust.

He withdrew from her and was on his knees at once, lifting her at the waist onto the table and pushing her forward across the map. Markers scattered and rolled onto the ground. She screeched, surprised, then cried out his name; he pressed his mouth and fingers against her sex, avid, relentless. He pulled back and watched his own spend leak from her as he pleasured her, then buried his tongue back in her taste, circling her clit with certain, hard fury. She came when he walloped his right hand overhead in a final, ruthless spank; she bucked forward, writhing with bliss, grinding into his fingers still pressed up around her clit.

When she rolled over and sat up she laughed and pulled an iron flag out from under her legs, tossing it to the floor.

He clung around her waist, burying his head close against her belly, on his knees before her. The edge of the table pressed on his chest.

She held his wet chin, breathing hard.

She smiled.

“Shameless.”


End file.
